


all those lovely things

by museaway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Smith/Wesson, Christmas, Christmas Party, Co-workers, Cuddling & Snuggling, Directly inspired by awful holiday movies, Holidays, M/M, Ridiculous Premise, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, no. No. <em>No</em>. He’s not dying in a freak elevator accident on Christmas Eve with Castiel Novak. No way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all those lovely things

**Author's Note:**

> The holiday fic I never intended to write, based on the #ridiculousholidayAU tweets, which started as a joke and ended up totaling over 3,200 words (and 150+ tweets). The title is from _Merry Christmas, Baby_ and was originally "the" not "those" because I forgot the exact lyrics, but now that's fixed. Set in an indeterminate year in which Christmas falls on a Wednesday, so...not this year.
> 
> [The tweet to blame](https://twitter.com/museatplay/status/543958540193656832): _Castiel Novak is Dean Smith’s boss’s new assistant and they drunkenly make out at the holiday party._
> 
>  _Huge thanks to_ [Betty Days](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sadrobots/pseuds/betty%20days), [Jellyfax](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jellyfax), and [Riley](http://glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com/) for beta reading/brainstorming! And thanks to my Hallmark-movie-loving mother, who consulted to make this as made-for-TV-holiday-romcom!authentic as possible.

Dean hops a cab home from the Sandover company holiday party and picks pine needles and tinsel from his hair. He hasn’t made out like that in _years,_ not since Rhonda Hurley shoved him into the back of her pickup senior year and stuck her tongue in his mouth. He stumbles upstairs to his apartment and falls, fully clothed and deliriously giddy, into bed.

The next morning, he has a hangover the size of Kansas pounding in his temples and making his stomach roil. There’s a foggy memory of amazing hands and intense blue eyes floating around in his head. He throws up and can’t get off the couch until three in the afternoon, and vows he’s never going to drink again. He spends Sunday doing a power cleanse, but the blue remains.

+

Monday rolls around and Dean still feels like hell. He cabs it to work since he left the Prius there for the weekend, and arrives at work early, hoping that no one witnessed what happened on Friday, or was too drunk to remember themselves. He makes it to his desk, only to find a post-it note from his assistant: _Mr. Adler_ _’_ _s office ASAP_.

 _Crap_ , he thinks, and nervously checks his hair. He shouldn’t have let that sasquatch from IT talk him into shots. He straightens his tie and, with reluctance, calls for the elevator. It rattles in sync with his stomach, the whole ride up.

+

Zachariah’s new assistant is bent over his desk, providing Dean with a first-rate view of his ass. It’s a nice view that he allows himself to admire, just for a second, before clearing his throat.

“Dean Smith. I’m here to see Mr. Adler,” he announces.

The assistant waves him past without looking up. “He’s expecting you,” he says, shuffling papers.

 _Real friendly_ , Dean thinks with irritation. He shakes his head at the guy’s rumpled appearance: ill fitting suit, impressive bedhead. He won’t last long at Sandover, but then Zachariah’s assistants never do. Dean has stopped asking their names until they’ve survived a month.

Of course, this morning, Dean’s worried that his _own_ head is the one on the chopping block. He clears his throat to steel himself and knocks on the door.

“Mr. Smith!” Zachariah proclaims, and offers a handshake and a seat. Dean nervously takes it, smiles broadly to conceal his discomfort. Zachariah always looks a hair too friendly, like a cat that purrs just before it bites.

As it turns out, he’s offering Dean a potential account, which means putting in extra hours, even though it’s the holidays. Usually he’d jump at an opportunity like this, but the end of December is the only time his phone doesn’t relentlessly ring. To be honest, he was looking forward to leaving at five tonight like a normal person, sneak out early tomorrow. He’ll have to cancel plans to visit his family on Christmas Eve, but he can see them in the new year if not sooner, maybe even make it down later on Christmas Day. Landing this account for Sandover will put him in line for a promotion, so if he turns it down, he’ll never make Vice President, not even with another decade under his belt.

He shakes Zachariah’s hand with an eager smile plastered to his face. “No problem,” he assures him.

“Oh,” Zachariah adds as Dean is halfway out the door. “I’m going out of town for a few days, so you’ll be working with my assistant on this one.”

 _Great_ , Dean thinks, but he shoots Zachariah a thumbs-up.

The guy isn’t at his desk anymore, so Dean snatches up a business card with irritation and scrutinizes it. What the hell kind of name is Castiel?

+

 

> **To:** Castiel Novak  < cnovak@sandoverinc.com >  
>  **From:** Dean Smith < dsmith@sandoverinc.com >  
>  **Subject:** StroehmanRFP
> 
> Castiel:
> 
> Zachariah filled me in on the bid. When can we meet to discuss? My schedule is open all day. Please advise.
> 
> DS
> 
> _\--_
> 
> _Best regards,_
> 
> _Dean Smith_  
>  _Director of Sales and Marketing_  
>  _Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc._

> **To:** Dean Smith < dsmith@sandoverinc.com >  
>  **From:** Castiel Novak < cnovak@sandoverinc.com >  
>  **Subject:** RE: Stroehman RFP
> 
> I can fit you in later this week.
> 
> _\--_
> 
> _Best regards,_  
>  _Castiel Novak_  
>  _Executive Assistant to Zachariah Adler_  
>  _Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc._

> **To:** Castiel Novak < cnovak@sandoverinc.com >  
>  **From:** Dean Smith  < dsmith@sandoverinc.com >  
>  **Subject:** RE: Stroehman RFP
> 
> I’d like to get this started before the holiday since Zach wants it submitted by the 31st. What about a working lunch?
> 
> DS
> 
> _\--_
> 
> _Best regards,_
> 
> _Dean Smith_  
>  _Director of Sales and Marketing_  
>  _Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc._

> **To:** Dean Smith < dsmith@sandoverinc.com >  
>  **From:** Castiel Novak < cnovak@sandoverinc.com >  
>  **Subject:** RE: Stroehman RFP
> 
> Possibly tomorrow. My schedule is full.
> 
> _\--_
> 
> _Best regards,_  
>  _Castiel Novak_  
>  _Executive Assistant to Zachariah Adler_  
>  _Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc._

> **To:** Castiel Novak < cnovak@sandoverinc.com >  
>  **From:** Dean Smith < dsmith@sandoverinc.com >  
>  **Subject:** RE: Stroehman RFP
> 
> Any way you could pencil me in for a half hour just to go over basic details? I want to get a head start.
> 
> DS
> 
> _\--_
> 
> _Best regards,_
> 
> _Dean Smith_  
>  _Director of Sales and Marketing_  
>  _Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc._

+

Half a day and a half dozen emails later, Dean decides that “Castiel” is code for _rude, uppity assistant who can_ _’_ _t be bothered to include a sign-off in his emails._ He technically ranks above Dean, since he’s Zach’s assistant, but c’mon. He doesn’t have to be a dick.

After Dean pleads for the third time that they at least _meet_ by end-of-day today, Castiel concedes that he can give Dean ten minutes at 7pm. Ten minutes will hardly scrape the surface, but it’s a foot in the door.

 _Thank god for DVR_ , is all Dean can think, and begrudgingly agrees to stick around. He’s pretty sure he set that new holiday romcom to record, and thank God he lives alone with no one to monitor his entertainment choices, because that shit is _embarrassing._

+

He’s pissed off and has a headache when it’s finally time for the meeting. His stomach is growling. Those protein bars he’s been living on for two weeks don’t cut it, and he hasn’t lost a pound. _At least this won_ _’_ _t take long_ , he consoles himself, and loosens his tie. He hopes Castiel won’t notice if he looks sloppy, and everyone else has gone home for the night, anyway.

Castiel is seated at his computer, typing furiously. If possible, his hair’s even messier than it was this morning, sticking up in all directions. He lifts his chin when Dean enters and scowls at him. He looks familiar— _really_ familiar. Dean is positive he’s seen him somewhere recently but can’t immediately place him.

“Uh,” he says gracefully, practically tripping over his feet as he avoids colliding with a file box. Maybe they belong to the same gym? “I’m Dean. Have we met?”

“No,” Castiel replies with certainty, and waves to an open chair. “But I’ve only been here a month.”

“Seven years,” Dean offers.

“Pardon?” Castiel asks.

“Seven years. I’ve worked here seven years,” Dean clarifies, his tone a little harder. He started in a position just like Castiel’s; he’s worked his way up. This guy’s been here a hot four weeks. He needs to get off his high horse.

Castiel settles, his eyes softening. “Oh,” he says and sighs. He rubs his face and looks away. “I apologize for earlier. Mr. Adler sprung this project on me this morning, and I’m not prepared for it.”

“Yeah, Zach’s good at that. You’ll get used to it.”

“I suppose.”

Dean feels obligated to play the role of the knowledgeable elder, even though Castiel looks about Dean’s age, maybe even a couple years older.

“How do you like the job so far?”

“It’s challenging. It keeps me busy,” Castiel reports. “No one here has been very friendly since I started, though.”

“Wonder why,” Dean quips, though he shoots Castiel a grin. Castiel gives a scarce laugh, but Dean catches it: a desperate huff. He doesn’t smile but looks Dean straight in the eye. His are shocking blue.

The Christmas party comes rushing back: Dean has a hazy memory of his back against the wall behind the Christmas tree. Of a hot, greedy mouth against his. Of a deep voice murmuring, “I can’t believe we’re doing this” into his ear. Of those _eyes_. Of his hands buried in fantastic hair.

He coughs, which gives him reason to avert his gaze.

That guy at the party had seemed so _relaxed_. Surely he and Castiel can’t be the same person. But that explains why he looks familiar, why Dean gets chills when Castiel licks his lips, why his eyes are the exact shade of blue Dean has fantasized about for the past three days. They don’t say alcohol erases inhibitions for nothing.

Still, it’s best to be sure. He leans over the desk like he’s grabbing the pen next to Castiel’s notepad—yep, that’s definitely his handiwork on Castiel’s neck: The Dean Smith Calling Card, a reddish-purple bruise disappearing into a rumpled collar, and Castiel is sporting it. Awesome.

At least he was a good kisser. _Great_ kisser. Freaking fantastic. Jesus, that mouth has been on his throat, those hands under his shirt, that tongue in his ear. In his goddamned _ear_. Who does that?

Dean’s stomach flutters. So do other parts of him. This could be a problem.

“What’s the matter?” Castiel asks through a frown.

Dean has been staring too long. He opens his mouth and fishes for words. If Castiel recognizes him, he doesn’t give Dean any signs. Well, that’s probably for the best. It was the fault of the alcohol, and they have to work together. Anything else is complicated.

“Nothing,” Dean assures him brightly, and shifts to adjust himself. He doesn’t think of grinding down on Castiel’s thigh, all but ruining his favorite pants, no. “Let’s get to work.”

+

The ten minutes that Castiel granted him quickly turn into an hour. They work their way through the list of materials they have to assemble—it’s never as daunting as it first seems—but the timing of the request is bizarre.

“Who reviews RFPs over the holidays?” Dean grouses. After the new year, sure, but he’s never had to complete one this close to Christmas.

Castiel snorts and shakes his head. “The bid isn’t due until February. Zachariah wants ours in first. He thinks it will impress them.”

Ah. “Course he does,” Dean mutters.

After another half hour, his stomach growls. It catches Castiel’s attention.

“You’re hungry,” he says with a hint of apology. He switches off his monitor and pushes away from the desk. “We should stop.”

“Alright,” Dean agrees, with odd reluctance, eyes flitting to Castiel’s neck. He flushes and pulls out his phone as a distraction. “When do you want to meet again?”

“The same time tomorrow,” Castiel says, “if that’s fine with you.”

Dean enters the appointment into his phone. “As long as it’s a working dinner,” he says, only half joking. “I might starve to death otherwise.”

Castiel blinks but nods. He looks...happy about it? Not pissed, at least. It’s not how Dean wants to spend Christmas Eve, not when he could be at his mom’s table with a huge slice of her famous apple crumb pie, but at least they can write off the food as a work expense.

+

His parents are predictably furious he won’t be at their house tomorrow night. He makes the mistake of calling instead of texting, which forces him to have a real-time conversation.

“I’ll drive down when I can,” he promises after a tense silence while his dad processes the information.

“You work too much, boy,” his dad reprimands.

“Give Jo a hug for me,” Dean says. He hangs up before his dad can protest further and goes for a shower.

+

Sandover is open for business on December 24th, of _course_ , and the hallways are buzzing with excitement. Because Zachariah is out of town, nobody does much actual work.

Dean gets a message from Sam Wesson—so _that_ _’_ _s_ his name—in IT wishing him a happy holiday and apologizing for all the shots at the party. Dean wonders if Sam knows about Castiel, but decides it’s better not to ask. He writes back, “Thanks, you too.”

It hasn’t snowed since early December, which is unusual for Ohio. Brown slush lines the streets and the sky is gray. When the wind blows, it bends the trees.

“Guess this means no white Christmas,” he muses to no one in particular over his third cup of coffee in the break room.

The day doesn’t feel particularly merry, despite the sparkly holiday decor employees have draped over their cubicles, the sprigs of plastic mistletoe he purposefully sidesteps. They lie in wait at the water coolers.

He takes client calls and ignores texts from mom and Jo asking what time he’s getting in. Dad undoubtedly told them he can’t make it. At noon, he can’t abide the guilt trip any longer and turns off his cell.

He spends a few minutes of innocent flirtation with Lisa from accounts payable, and asks about her son. He shows face on the IT floor to wish happy holidays to the support staff, waving awkwardly at Sam. His Christmas bonus arrives mid-afternoon in a standard payroll envelope. It’s a generous amount, more than last year. Maybe this coming year is the one he’ll finally take that vacation.

He orders lunch: a Greek salad, light on the dressing, light cheese. He returns emails. There is one from Castiel confirming tonight’s meeting.

“Should I order something in?” his message reads in conclusion. He didn't sign it.

Dean decides his diet can have one day off, and ordering in means it’s on the company’s tab. “Sounds good,” he responds and drums his fingers on his desk as he continues to skim his inbox.

+

By 5pm, he wishes he’d brought comfortable pants to change into. He still has two hours before the meeting, and the building’s deserted. Most of the staff took off at four. No one would know or care if he violates dress code. He’s getting tired of suits. He’s getting tired of the corporate life. He could just go home. He’s thought about quitting, but it would take years to get this far in another company without a lateral hire, and he’s dependent on the money. Plus, it would be a dick move to leave Castiel with all the work on Christmas Eve.

He resigns himself to wait, turns his phone back on, and thumbs through a series of pouty selfies from Jo.

“ _Better have a good excuse for standing me up_ ,” she writes.

He sends back a snapshot of his to-do list and the stacks of files on his desk.

“ _Lame_ ,” she replies. He supposes she’s right.

“ _Getting in the car first thing tomorrow, cross my heart,_ ” he texts her.

“ _I’m not saving you any bacon_ ,” she threatens.

“ _BTW are you bringing anyone?_ ” she writes a minute later.

He scowls and sends back, “ _No. Why?”_

“ _Mom wants to know._ ”

Of course she does. Ellen Smith will never rest until Dean is settled. It’s just like her to remind Dean of his single status at the holidays. “You can’t fault me for wanting a couple of grandbabies before I die,” she always lectures. He pinches the bridge of his nose and doesn’t write anything in response.

He’s months behind on filing and his assistant is worthless at everything but answering phones. He spends an hour tidying his desk, fourteen minutes sorting papers by client. He foregoes the tie at 6:00pm and the suspenders at 6:28pm. By 6:43pm, he’s bored stiff and heads upstairs early.

If possible, Castiel looks worse than yesterday, with bruise-like circles under each eye. Dean wishes he’d brought the comb and pomade he keeps for emergencies. Is that the same shirt? Dean could swear he’s got on the same outfit he wore yesterday, just more deeply wrinkled across his stomach and elbows.

Castiel actually lifts his chin as Dean approaches the desk. “Is it seven already?” he asks in a tired voice. His eyes are red-rimmed.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Dean says, holding up his hands, “but you look terrible. Should we postpone?”

“I just want to get this over with,” Castiel says. “Our food should be here soon. I ordered Italian. I hope that’s alright.”

Carbs. Great. Dean instinctively sucks in his gut.

“Fine,” he lies. “But you honestly look exhausted. Can I get you coffee, at least?”

Castiel looks relieved by his suggestion. “Thank you.”

Dean brews a fresh pot and pours it into a stainless-steel carafe they generally reserve for meetings. He brings it back with two mugs. Castiel actually smiles, latches onto the closest mug, and buries his face in it. Dean is not jealous of a mug, because that would be absurd.

“You know,” he says, dropping into the chair opposite Castiel. “There’s this thing called sleep. You should try it.”

Castiel is quiet for a while. He fiddles with a pen and his top button. Then he quietly admits, “My heat’s broken.”

Dean takes in his mussed hair, the overt signs of sleep deprivation, his rumpled clothing.

“You’ve been sleeping here,” he puts together, and feels a little bad about it.

Castiel nods slowly, reddening. “I would appreciate if you wouldn’t say anything.”

“Hey,” Dean says. “Things happen.”

“I was going to stay with a friend, but it fell through last minute,” Castiel explains. “I was told the heat would be fixed this week, but I haven’t heard anything.”

“I know how that goes. My tub stopped draining last year; took three days to get a plumber out. Hard to find good help.”

“Yes,” Castiel says gravely.

“You know there are shower facilities upstairs?”

“Mmm,” Castiel hums. “Good water pressure.”

They drink coffee quietly while Castiel finishes working. He types quickly; the repetitive tapping sounds soothing, like rain. He’s got great hands that have been all over Dean’s body, and Castiel doesn’t even realize. Dean almost wishes he couldn’t remember any details. What’s it say about him that Castiel doesn’t recognize him? Story of his life. No one ever stays with him for long. Why would they, with his obsession with work? He tugs at his sleeve, smoothing it, and glances outside.

It’s dark. The city is pretty at night, the way it almost sparkles. It’s just streetlights, headlights, but it’s beautiful. He prefers it to the country. Still, it doesn’t feel like Christmas is tomorrow. He should be on his way to his parents’ right now, like he does every year. Instead, he’s...here.

“Alright,” Castiel announces, rousing Dean from his self-pity. “Let me check with catering and we’ll get started.”

“They didn’t go home?” Dean asks, blinking.

“Meg offered to stay so I didn’t have to pick it up myself,” Castiel says.

“Cool,” Dean says. He has no right to sound miffed.

 _Chill, Smith_ , he chastises. _You only made out_ one _time._

Maybe the cleanse has had side effects. He did one last year that Russ from HR recommended and had intestinal problems for a week. (Thank god for parsley and seven years of rolled-over sick days.)

Meg brings the food, wishes them both Merry Christmas and winks at Castiel on her way out. Castiel, for his part, is unaffected.

“She’s cute,” Dean prompts, because Dean is apparently reliving his awkward, passive-aggressive teenage years.

“I suppose,” Castiel sighs. Dean shouldn’t be bolstered by the resignation in his voice, but it’s late and he should be singing along to Christmas music right now.

“Not your type?”

“My mother certainly wishes so.”

Well, it’s something they have in common. “Glad it’s not just me,” Dean says. Castiel bites his lip but doesn’t offer more information.

He lifts the cover from their plates. Dean hasn’t had pasta in so long. It smells unbelievably good, like garlic and onions and tomato. He groans.

“Sorry,” Dean says when he notices Castiel looking at him with his head slightly tilted in query. “It’s been a while.”

Castiel laughs desperately. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Garlic bread?” He tilts the open bag toward Dean, who takes a breadstick.

“I’ve missed you,” he declares to it and bites off a third. He’s pleased that it makes Castiel chuckle.

They eat for a while before Dean motions to the file he brought with him. “Think we can knock this out tonight?” he asks. His mouth is full. It’s impolite and he doesn’t care. This food is _delicious_.

“Do you ever eat actual food?” Castiel inquires, spearing three pieces of bowtie pasta and swirling them in a puddle of sauce.

“I might need to start,” Dean says. He scrapes the last of the sauce and cheese with his fork. “If I go into a food coma, I blame you.”

“You put the food in your mouth,” Castiel corrects. His voice has a sudden edge. “Your actions are your responsibility.”

Dean’s sure he’s missing something, but his brain is too carb-happy to care just now. He cleans his mouth with a napkin and taps the rough draft. “Back to the fun?”

It’s mostly cut and paste from old RFPs, shining up a few details (age of the company, hourly rates), updating the project list. Castiel types the edits as they go.

A little past 9pm. they’ve agreed the proposal is ready for Zachariah to review. Castiel emails it to him and CCs Dean. “Thanks for staying,” he says tentatively.

“Sure,” Dean replies. It’s not like he had a choice, but he doesn’t say that.

He gets his coat and uses the bathroom while Castiel locks the floor. Dean pushes the elevator button while Castiel closes the glass doors and comes to wait with him. Dean could head to his folks’ place tonight, surprise them. Their presents are in the back of his Prius, and his bag is packed except for his toiletries. He’s not too tired to drive, and then he’ll be there for Christmas morning.

The idea makes him cheery. He’s smiling to himself by the time the elevator arrives. They step inside and the doors slide closed.

The descent begins smoothly. They’re both quiet. He can hear Castiel breathe. But then the car lurches and shakes; the lights go off, then on, then off again.

Dean’s heart leaps to his throat. Oh, no. No. _No_. He’s not dying in a freak elevator accident on Christmas Eve with Castiel Novak. No way.

The car lurches again but doesn’t fall. It jerks to a stop. Dean stumbles into the wall. The emergency lights switch on, and he starts to hyperventilate.

“This isn’t happening,” he cries. He grips the hand rail until his knuckles are white.

Castiel calmly pushes the “Alarm” button. No one answers.

“Maybe it’s broken,” Castiel says and pushes it again to no avail.

Dean is lightheaded. The building is closed tomorrow. What if the cable snaps? They’ll plummet to their deaths. Oh, god, he’s going to die in a freak elevator accident with Castiel Novak and he never even made Vice President.

“You should sit down,” Castiel suggests gently.

He places a firm hand on Dean’s shoulder and guides him to the floor. Castiel sits next to him and crosses his legs. He looks Dean in the eye.

“Do you have your phone?” he asks.

Dean feels a flicker of relief and pulls it out.

“No service,” he groans. This can’t be happening. He is not spending Christmas Eve trapped in an elevator. “What about yours?”

Castiel grimaces. “I left it upstairs,” he continues. “I was just walking you out. I didn’t have plans to leave tonight.”

“Oh,” says Dean, remembering what he said about his heat. “Right.”

Castiel’s squint is one of pity. Dean feels unraveled by it.

“Guess it’s better to be stuck with someone,” he says shakily. Sweat beads on his upper lip. He licks it away. He hates when people see him like this, losing his cool. He especially hates that it’s _Castiel_ with him, instead of some faceless IT nerd who hasn’t felt him up.

“I was stuck for a few hours once,” Castiel says, nonchalant. “It wasn’t that bad.” His composure is irritating.

“Not helping, buddy,” Dean manages through a dry mouth.

“My mistake,” says Castiel, and falls quiet.

Dean shuts his eyes. The emergency lights are bright and assaulting. He feels the beginnings of vertigo, tries to imagine long stretches of highway, a cross-country drive: forest, mountains, sun-baked farmlands, anywhere but the claustrophobia of the elevator. He is not going to throw up. “Listen, distract me, would you?”

“How?” Castiel asks.

Dean can think of a few ways, but what he says is, “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Tell me about you.”

“Alright,” Castiel agrees hesitantly. He takes a breath. “I’m from a small town called Garrison in North Dakota. I’m from a large family. I have a younger sister and several older brothers, all successful.” He says it with a degree of bitterness. “I moved here about a year ago and have been looking for work. I saw this position advertised online.”

Dean likes Castiel’s voice. It’s rough but somehow gentle. He feels better when Castiel talks, his panic less immediate. “What d’you do for fun?”

“I rescue people from dire situations.” 

“Great,” Dean says. “Get us the hell out of here.”

Castiel huffs a laugh and continues, “I read, mostly. I don’t like TV. I walk my neighbor’s dog. Sometimes I take pictures.”

“That’s it?” Dean asks.

“I like to bake,” Castiel offers with a small shrug.

“Pie?” Dean asks hopefully.

“Name your flavor.”

“No preference,” Dean says emphatically.

Castiel laughs again. “When my heat’s back on, I’ll bake you one to say thank you.”

Dean can almost taste warm cherry filling, spicy-sweet apple, buttery crust with chopped-up walnuts (his mom’s secret recipe) that he crushes against the roof of his mouth. “I haven’t had pie in almost a year,” he says.

Castiel gives him a funny look. “Why not, if you like it?”

“Watching my weight.” Dean pats his gut. Castiel appears unimpressed.

They’re quiet for a long time after that. It must be a power failure that knocked out the elevator; maybe a tree has fallen on a power line because of the wind. Over the next hour, the elevator car gradually cools, to the point where Castiel tugs his sleeves over his wrists, draws his knees up to his chest. Dean curls into himself in the corner.

What is he going to do when he wakes up and needs coffee? Christ, what’s he going to do when he has to pee? He thanks his lucky stars he had the sense to use the bathroom before they boarded this death trap, but considering how much coffee he drank today, a pit stop is inevitable. Talk about a mood killer. That’s something married people do.

He shifts his thoughts to pleasant things: that trip to the Grand Canyon he's going to take someday. The smell of his parents' house. Holiday music. Holiday bonuses. Attractive strangers at holiday parties.

“You ever make out in an elevator?” he asks through a yawn. Which is a stupid thing to say, gauging by the way Castiel’s head whips up. “Just making conversation,” Dean covers and rubs his arms.

“Not in an elevator, no,” Castiel answers after a pause. He tilts his head before adding, “Behind a Christmas tree, yes.”

Dean looks at him, eyes wide.

“You thought I didn’t remember you,” Castiel says in realization. He isn’t smiling. His stare is blank and intense.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Dean hisses.

“The same reason you didn’t,” Castiel bites back. “We were drunk.”

“Yeah, well, Sam can hold his liquor,” Dean says, looking away. The caveat of _“ and apparently I can’t”_ remains unspoken.

“He’s a great deal taller,” Castiel allows, calmer. “Anyway, I should’ve said something, but I didn’t think you realized it was me until I noticed you staring. I apologize.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean mumbles.

Castiel nods. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Is it inappropriate if I say you’re a good kisser?”

“Uh,” Dean says, considering. They’re not on clock, and the company’s position regarding fraternization is a recommendation, not a hard and fast rule. “No?”

Castiel smiles a little smugly.

“You too,” Dean admits. “You know, you were good.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get your number.”

“If we get outta here,” Dean says, “you can have it.”

“ _When_ ,” Castiel corrects. “When.”

+

The temperature drops another few degrees, and sitting next to each other becomes practical. Dean angles his torso so he’s leaning into Castiel’s side, ducking his chin down into his jacket. Castiel spreads his overcoat across their legs and doesn’t protest when Dean lowers his head to Castiel’s shoulder. He slings an arm across Dean’s back and sighs.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbles. His ass is sore, but he’s warmer, and Castiel’s shoulder is kinda comfortable. He smells like cucumbers. Castiel nods against his hair.

They’ve known each other a grand total of three days, wrecked each other against a wall, and now they’re engaged in emergency cuddling to preserve body heat. Dean’s heard of whirlwind, but this is absurd. It wouldn’t even make a good movie.

But as far as nights stuck in an elevator go, he muses, drawing even closer to Castiel’s side, this one isn’t so bad.

+

He’s shocked awake by a voice calling from outside the door. “We’ll get you out soon. Hang on,” it promises. Dean sniffs and sits up, rubbing the crick in his neck. He’s stiff all over, shaking with cold, mouth dry, but he’s _relieved_. He digs a knuckle into his eyes until they water and yawns.

Castiel wakes demurely, covers his mouth when he yawns, and blinks a few times. He doesn’t say anything, just nods to Dean that he heard the voice too, and gathers his coat. He stands and slips it on, then offers a hand to pull Dean to his feet. Dean digs in his briefcase for a pack of gum, pops two pieces in his mouth and offers one to Castiel.

They chew in silence until there is a crack of light, a wrenching sound, and gloved hands shoving the elevator doors apart. They’re between floors; there’s a man peering at him from up above.

He pulls Dean out first, then Castiel. The technician is a tall, burly man with narrow eyes and a wicked grin.

“Take it easy, brother,” he drawls and claps Dean on the back when they leave him to begin repairs.

+

“I can’t believe it’s only two in the morning,” Dean remarks as they cross the lobby. It’s empty. His shoes squeak and echo as they walk. Through the doors, he can see streetlights. The power must be back on.

“It feels later,” Castiel agrees, buttoning his coat. Dean doesn’t ask why, or why Castiel is apparently following him.

Dean’s cell chimes in his pocket. “Back in service,” he announces and pulls it out. It’s a text from Sam Wesson, a crappy photo of him and Castiel against the wall behind the Christmas tree. “ _Found this on my phone_ ,” it says.

“Sonofabitch,” Dean mutters and hurriedly taps the screen so Castiel won’t see. He thinks for a second, then types back, “ _Seriously?_ ”

Sam's reply is instant. “ _You’re welcome._ ”

“Jerk,” Dean mutters, though he can’t get the smirk off of his face. Castiel watches him curiously and unlocks the main door, then locks it behind him. He continues to walk with Dean.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says. His nose is beginning to run from the cold. He looks at Castiel, and Castiel holds his gaze. They step in tandem all the way to the Prius. “This is me,” Dean says lamely.

“That’s a nice car,” Castiel compliments.

“The gas mileage is unbeatable,” Dean says, patting the hood. Castiel looks at him expectantly. His eyes drop to Dean’s mouth, and he exhales fog.

Dean’s mind goes blank. He can’t think of anything but having Castiel’s mouth on his again. He grips his lapel in one hand, cups his face with the other, backs him up against the car and kisses him hard. He slides a hand into Castiel’s hair, into his absurd and wonderful hair. Castiel groans. He places his hands on Dean’s hips and kisses back. He’s still amazing at it, even sober.

It starts out passionately, fueled by Dean’s lingering fear and adrenaline. What a terrible night, but it’s over, and they’re both fine. He feels stupid for panicking like he did, but he’s grateful that Castiel remained calm. He doesn’t want to think how he would’ve reacted if he’d been stuck by himself for four hours. He would’ve thrown up, that’s a given. He would have shouted himself hoarse. And the night wouldn’t have concluded in the parking lot, pressed against a hot guy, making out like horny teenagers. He would have retreated to his apartment, metaphorical tail firmly between his legs.

Castiel slips one hand inside Dean’s jacket, gently squeezing his waist. Dean moans a little and licks deeper into his mouth, but his movements become softer. Sweet. He steps closer, so that his leg nudges between Castiel’s, the reverse of their positions from Friday night. He pauses, content just to _feel_ Castiel’s mouth pressed against his. Castiel arches forward into his thigh.

“Listen,” Dean says, nipping at his upper lip. “Why don’t you come back to my place, grab a shower, wash your stuff.”

“Why?” Castiel murmurs and kisses him again, arches up again. Dean stifles a moan.

“Because it’s Christmas,” he declares, kissing Castiel a final time before forcing himself to step back a few inches. “And because I want you to.”

“My phone,” Castiel says, looking back at the building. The glow of the streetlight plays off his hair like a halo.

“Do you need it?” Dean asks breathlessly. He thinks of the stairs. He can’t recall the last time he made it to the gym; he ought to cancel his membership. It’s burning a hole in his wallet. Stairs are out, and there’s no way he’s getting back in that elevator. What he wants is for Castiel to get in the car.

“Not really,” Castiel says with a shrug and opens the door.

+

He’s a long time in the shower, long even by Dean’s standards, and he’s a fanatic about the rainfall shower head. Despite the hour, Dean is oddly awake. He brews a pot of decaf and puts Castiel’s clothes into the washing machine. The suit is dry-clean only, so he hangs it up, then rummages through the refrigerator for leftovers.

Would it be weird to cook breakfast at three in the morning? Probably no weirder than bringing home a practical stranger, washing his clothes, and hoping they make out again. He pulls out a carton of egg whites and the turkey bacon, a bottle of orange juice.

“Better?” Dean asks when Castiel emerges from the bathroom. Dean is flipping the bacon, which sizzles pleasantly in the frying pan. Jo makes fun of him for eating the low-fat kind, but it’s better than denying himself entirely.

“Much,” Castiel says gratefully, toweling dry his hair. It even looks good wet. “Your apartment is beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Dean answers proudly.

“Have you lived here long?”

“A few years.”

Castiel is wearing the clothes Dean laid out for him: sweatpants, a Stanford t-shirt, and an old, comfortable hoodie. They’re a little big on him. The sweatpants drag below his ankles, but Dean gets a warm feeling in his chest at the sight of him.

“So, I was hungry. There’s plenty for you,” Dean offers, blushing. He motions to the coffee. “It’s decaf. I just put your clothes in the dryer. Should be done in about an hour.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” Castiel says, picking up a mug. He curls his hands around it. “Unless you need to get going.”

“I’m good,” Dean says, laying the bacon on a paper towel. “I didn’t ask you over just to kick you back out. It only takes me a couple hours to get to my folks’, and I should rest before I drive. Do you want a plate?”

“Sure,” Castiel says. “Thank you.”

Dean divides the bacon onto two plates with a mound of egg whites, pours them both a small glass of juice. He sets everything on a tray and carries it over to the sofa.

“I was gonna watch a movie,” Dean says, picking up the remote. “I know you said you’re not into TV.”

“I like movies sometimes,” Castiel says and settles next to him. He reaches for his plate.

“How do you feel about ridiculous holiday movies?” Dean asks with a proactive grimace.

“I think they’re ridiculous,” Castiel answers. He bites off a piece of bacon and smiles. “We should watch one.”

The movie is predictable. Dean even nails a couple lines of dialogue before the actors speak them. Castiel laughs and comments that the timeframe is implausible— _nobody_ falls in love in three days, but Dean elbows him playfully, saying “shh.” Castiel elbows him back, sets their plates aside and reaches for the throw Dean has laid across the back of the couch. He spreads it over both of them and slumps against Dean’s side.

“Comfy?” Dean asks, surprised by the crack in his voice, the butterflies in his stomach.

“Mmhm.”

He watches the rest of the movie with Castiel asleep on his shoulder. It stirs something in him. Dean never thinks of himself as lonely, but maybe he is. He’s content with his life, but he thinks if he could have this, someone to sit with at the end of the day and watch meaningless fluff, that he could be happy.

Maybe it’s just for tonight. After all, Zachariah’s assistants don’t have a good track record, but Castiel seems different from his predecessors. And maybe this is just a one-time thing, but Dean likes this one-time thing. He mutes the television and lets himself have a few minutes with their heads resting together.

It has to be close to five in the morning. He’s exhausted and should sleep, but he’s reluctant to move Castiel, afraid he might invent a reason to leave. His clothes are dry. They’ve both eaten. But Dean can’t sleep on the couch, not when he’s got to drive in a few hours, in holiday traffic no less. He shakes Castiel’s leg gently.

“Did I fall asleep on you?” Castiel asks groggily, sitting up.

“Yeah,” Dean says and rubs his knee. “My bed’s a lot more comfortable.”

Castiel is still for a moment. Dean thinks he crossed a line, that Castiel is thinking of the most polite way to turn him down. Instead, he moves the blanket aside, stands up, and offers Dean his hand.

Dean doesn’t bother with the lights or the dishes, just lets Castiel tug him into the bedroom. He leaves the alarm clock off and shrugs out of his clothes, so he’s standing in a pair of briefs, wondering what the hell he’s doing.

Rustling indicates the Castiel has gotten into bed, so Dean follows. He’s glad the room is dark. It conceals the flush in his chest and neck and face as he lifts a corner of the sheet. It’s been an embarrassingly long time since he did this. He’s prepared to lie a respectable distance apart and is surprised when Castiel rolls over into his space. Their faces are just an inch apart. He rests one hand on Dean’s side, over his ribs.

“Good night,” he slurs.

Dean can’t recall the last time he cuddled with someone he’s never slept with, can’t even remember the last person he let stay over, but it’s nice. _Really_ nice. Castiel smells like his soap. He’s warm and kisses Dean’s cheek, once, then stops moving. Dean curls his fingers into Castiel’s shirt and sleeps.

+

Dean wakes up from what _has_ to be a dream, a little disappointed, until he realizes that someone is breathing quietly behind him. He experiences a rush when he turns over to find Castiel on his side, face half-buried in the pillow, fast asleep. Dean hasn’t been this excited on Christmas morning since he was six years old and still believed in Santa. His whole body tingles with it.

Castiel is _beautiful_ when he’s asleep. Dean stares at him for a long time, aware that it’s probably creepy, but he can’t help himself. He feels so damned good. There’s a guy—a hot, smart guy—asleep in his bed, wearing his clothes. He could get used to this: sharing stuff, waking up with someone.

He thinks about touching Castiel’s face, wonders if it would wake him if Dean lightly traced his jaw or smoothed a thumb over his lip. His mouth is just parted. Dean could lean in, kiss him awake, but he doesn’t—just watches.

“Hey,” he whispers when Castiel’s eyes flutter open. Castiel looks confused for a few seconds before he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Hello, Dean,” he says. His voice is sexy as hell first thing in the morning. They smile awkwardly at one another.

“Sleep okay?” Dean asks.

“I haven’t slept this well in months,” Castiel confesses. “Thank you.”

Dean glances at the clock. It’s almost ten, and he promised Jo that he’d be on the road by now. “I should get going,” he says regretfully.

“Of course,” Castiel says.

He stops smiling, gets up, and sits on the edge of the bed. He stretches and rubs the sleep from his eyes. Dean watches him for a beat, then opens his closet and selects comfortable trousers and a lightweight sweater, sensible driving clothes.

“I’m grabbing a shower,” he announces.

Castiel nods and yawns but keeps his back to Dean.

“Coffee maker’s in the kitchen,” Dean calls before closing the bathroom door. “Help yourself.”

The shower is just what he needs. He lets it rain on his back, work out the tension from hours of sitting on the elevator floor. He washes his hair and skin, brushes his teeth with vigor. He skips the blowdryer and just works a little product through his hair, finger styles it, then dresses in the bathroom. He always gets changed in the bedroom, but he isn’t sure Castiel would appreciate him hopping around in his briefs, trying to put on his socks. He uses the counter for support, dabs on a little Armani, and declares himself good to go.

Castiel has made a pot of coffee and is drinking it at the kitchen counter. He’s put back on his suit pants and shirt, but his jacket is off. His tie is on backwards. Dean bites the inside of his lip in amusement but doesn’t say anything, just pours himself a cup and drinks a few sips with his hip against the sink.

“I put your clothes in the machine,” Castiel tells him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Dean admonishes.

“Still,” Castiel says, so Dean smiles at him.

“What are your plans for today?” he asks. “Headed back over to Sandover?”

“I’m going to stop by my apartment, pick up a few things,” Castiel says. “Nothing special, but I’ll enjoy the day off.”

“I’ll drop you on my way out of town,” Dean offers.

“I appreciate it,” Castiel says. He has both elbows on the counter. Dean pictures him in his parents’ kitchen, seated at the central island, chatting with his mom as she cooks.

Why not? It’s not like Castiel has anywhere else to go, and Dean likes his company. Of course, there’s the fact that they barely know each other, just met a couple days ago, and this isn’t the sort of thing Dean _does_. He isn’t prone to spontaneity. It’s not even in his lexicon. He lives by his schedule and a regimented lifestyle, which is maybe why he feels so joyless.

“Look,” he begins, figuring if he’s going to say this, it’s best to be direct. “I know this is out of the blue, but since you don’t have any plans, do you want to come with me?”

“To your parents’ house?” Castiel asks through a frown.

Dean shrugs. “Yeah.”

Castiel looks down at himself. “I—I don’t have any other clothes with me.” 

“So we’ll stop by your place first,” Dean says lightly, though he steels himself for the rejection. But Castiel appears to mull over the idea, pressing his lips together and rubbing his face.

“Are you sure I wouldn’t be imposing?” he asks after a minute. His forehead is creased in concern. It’s kind of endearing.

“Nah,” Dean assures him. He tries for casual. “My dad’s laid back. Jo will probably talk your ear off, but my mom’ll love you. She’ll ask when we’re getting married, though.”

Dean has no idea why he said that— _why_ did he say that?—but Castiel surprises him by laughing. ”That sounds great,” he says honestly.

“Scares most people off,” Dean admits.

“My family usually spends the day criticizing my life choices and trying to fix me up with women,” Castiel tells him. “It’s part of the reason I moved away. I promise, your family sounds refreshing.”

“In that case, are you ready?” Dean asks. “If we head out now, we’ll make it in time for lunch.”

“Okay,” says Castiel.

+

When they step outside, the ground is layered in an inch of snow. Flakes drift silently around them. It’s still, wonderfully quiet. He breathes in the cold air and is renewed. Castiel looks otherworldly with snow settling on his hair. He catches a snowflake on his tongue and laughs. Dean kinda wants to debauch him on the Prius.

He unlocks the doors and sets his bag on the back seat. He starts the engine so the car can begin to warm up, and plugs his phone into the USB port. He digs under his seat for the snow scraper.

“See if you can find a holiday station,” he suggests. “We’re singing.” Castiel gives him a thumbs-up and fiddles with the radio dials.

It’s a powdery snow, easy to brush from the windshield and the roof of the car. It only takes a few minutes, but his gloves are soaked through once he’s done, and his fingertips are numb. Castiel is looking out his window, bobbing his head to music.

Dean peels off his damp gloves and tosses them onto the back seat, lays the snow scraper in the footwell behind him to dry, and gets in the car. The radio is playing a jazzy version of _Merry Christmas, Baby_. He sighs and lets his head loll against the headrest as his hands warm up, holding them against the vents.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks. He sounds uncertain, like he thinks Dean has changed his mind about the invitation. Dean tilts his head to smile at him, lazy, like the music makes him feel.

“I’m good,” he promises. He leans across the console, drawing Castiel in by his backwards tie, and kisses him until he doesn’t look nervous anymore. Castiel’s face is flushed, but he rests a hand on Dean’s knee and squeezes.

Dean beams at him. He texts “I’m plus one” to Jo and shifts the car into reverse.

**Author's Note:**

> A few people have asked if I'm going to continue this. I wrote it as a one-shot, but if you're game, add on! Happy holidays! <3


End file.
